


where on this earth i could be

by fideliant



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, World Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 17:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6089155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fideliant/pseuds/fideliant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen countries, six continents, and Eggsy doesn’t know where he’ll be going next but knows he doesn’t care, so long as he’s going by Harry’s side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where on this earth i could be

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in mid-January hoping to get it done in time for the one-year anniversary of the movie, but obviously I failed and that's why this is only going up now. D=
> 
> But anyway, Happy Kingsmaniversary (and a week)!

 

Eggsy looks at Harry a lot more than he really should. Across the meeting table during briefings, little split-second sideway glances as they walk past each other, a thieved glimpse in the men’s room that makes him feel dirty even as he scrubs his soapy hands clean. His eyes wander from Harry’s broad shoulders to the curve of his solid jaw, trailing down his thighs and legs and to his wrists where shirt cuffs border skin.

He wants to stop. He wishes he could. But Eggsy stares, unable to help it, and if he’s careless with himself one too many times, he’s thankful for the fact that it’s Roxy who notices and nobody else.

“You should talk to him,” she says, one day.

Eggsy looks down at his shoes, away from Roxy. Roxy, who’s scared stiff of heights and still jumps from planes and outer space, who understands most of all what it is to take a leap of faith.

“Just give it a shot,” Roxy suggests. “You never know.”

Eggsy doesn’t say anything. He thinks of the grey double-breasted pinstripe Harry had worn to work this morning and how nice it looked on him, just as everything always does. Thinks of Harry’s perfectly manicured hands and the way his hair curls along the back of his neck, and Eggsy’s fingers itch.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I don’t.”

***

The summons to Kingsman HQ isn’t entirely unexpected, though Eggsy almost does a double-take when he enters to find Harry occupying one of the two chairs in front of Arthur’s desk.

“New assignment for you, Erec,” says Arthur — the _new_ Arthur — once Eggsy’s taken the other chair. He indicates Harry with a tilt of his head. “I’ve just cleared Galahad for active duty.”

“Oh.” Eggsy blinks. “Aweso — I mean, glad to hear that.”

“He’ll need someone to provide backup in the field for the time being,” Arthur elaborates. “You understand why, of course.”

“I — yeah.” Protocol for all new or returning Kingsman. Eggsy’d gone through the same thing not too long ago. “You want me to do it?”

Arthur nods. “If it’s not too much to ask.”

Eggsy looks at Harry. He gets a mild look in response, along with slightly raised eyebrows. Neither of them say anything in the brief moment that they hold each other’s gaze, and Eggsy thinks about it for a while before turning back to Arthur.

“Alright,” he says. “If Harry’s fine with it, I guess.”

***

On their way down to the underground monorail, Harry says, apropos of nothing, “I suppose it won’t be much consolation if I promise that you can expect no less than my best.”

Brows furrowing, Eggsy asks, “Why not?”

Harry’s smile is small and slightly crooked, almost guilty. “Might be a bit boring for you, being on backup. I was thinking you’d prefer something with more action for yourself.”

Eggsy shrugs. “Nah, I don’t mind. Could use the break, to be honest. Not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

Harry chuckles, lifting a hand to scratch his chin. Eggsy bites his lip and keeps his eyes forward. Their Oxfords clack smartly against the marble of the floor.

“Thank you, Eggsy.”

Eggsy sighs and says, “I don’t think Arthur was really giving me much of a choice.”

“Nevertheless.” Harry smiles again, this kind, warm thing that makes Eggsy’s stomach swim just as they arrive at the loading bay. “Thank you.”

Eggsy nods in lieu of smiling back or a _you’re welcome,_ pressing the button to summon the monorail car.

***

Their first joint mission is a domestic matter up in the north of England — a group of illicit firearms dealers holed up in an abandoned apartment complex in Blackpool. Probably nothing MI5 couldn’t handle on their own. Still, they don’t call it in until Harry’s cleared the whole building of hostiles and Eggsy’s done a sweep of the area to make sure there are no stragglers left over.

“Think you got all of ‘em,” Eggsy says, stepping round a body lying face-down on the floor.

“It would seem so,” Harry agrees. He flips the safety of his gun back on and pushes it into its holster, under his left arm. “This was much easier than I expected.”

Eggsy smirks. “Already getting cocky on your first day back? That ain’t like you, _Galahad._ ”

“Just stating a fact, that’s all.” The twinkle in Harry’s eye at the moniker lingers a while longer, then he clears his throat and says, “It is good to be back, I must say.”

“Good to have you back,” Eggsy says.

When Harry beams at him, Eggsy avoids catching his eye by pretending to scuff broken glass off the bottom of his shoe.

***

After about a week of nothing but similar sting operations around the country, they’re given mission dossiers significantly thicker than the last few and instructions to trade in their Glocks at the armoury for Kingsman-issue Colts, the kind specially designed for agents to carry through airport security checks without hassle.

“Looks like we’re taking a bit of a trip,” Harry remarks as they’re signing out magazines and ammunition.

Eggsy grunts in vague assent but doesn’t say anything else. He skims the mission brief without really processing any of the text or pictures, not sure what he’s looking at or for, and after a while he lets the dossier fall shut in his lap.

***

Two fake passports and a pair of plane tickets later, they make it to Heathrow with two hours to spare before their flight is due to leave. Harry goes off somewhere to do goodness knows what shortly after, and Eggsy kills some time by poking around duty free before heading for their departure gate. He buys a print copy of The Daily Telegraph and a crossword pad from a newsstand he walks past, and spots Harry lounging on the benches just outside the gate.

“Ah, there you are,” Harry says when he sees him. He offers Eggsy a shawarma, wrapped in greaseproof paper. “Thought you might be hungry.”

“Thanks.” Eggsy accepts the shawarma and, without giving much thought to it, hands the crossword pad to Harry in exchange.

“A crossword?” The pages rustle in rapid succession as Harry flicks through it with the pad of his thumb. He looks at Eggsy, not so much expecting an explanation but not ruling out the possibility of one either.

Eggsy shrugs and takes a bite of the shawarma. He gets houmous smeared on his upper lip and licks it off, swallowing it down along with the taste of onion and grilled lamb. “It’s gonna be a long flight.”

***

Thirteen hours pass before they touch down in Mexico City. Disembarking from the plane, they retrieve their suitcases from the luggage carousel and fast-track through arrivals to reach the main airport. Harry stops at the information counter to ask for directions to the taxi stand and Eggsy picks up a tourist’s map of the local area, even though they won’t be returning to the city until the mission’s over and it’s time to leave.

Outside, the air is hot and humid, and the heat of the pavement seeps through the soles of Eggsy’s shoes as they walk to the roadside. They stand there at the pickup point, just the two of them, Harry checking the time on his phone and Eggsy leaning against the signpost with his hands in his pockets while they wait for a vacant taxi to pull in.

***

The Mexico assignment is a drugs one, because _of course_ it is; Eggsy’s watched three and a half seasons of _Breaking Bad,_ and sometimes cliches are cliches for a reason. The cartel Kingsman is tracking runs a slew of operations all the way from Guatemala to Arizona, which is why Harry and Eggsy are tasked with only taking down the ones where product is either manufactured or stored.

Three days of stakeouts in, they raid their first target. The warehouse is fairly small, about eighty miles from the next major city and guarded by at least two dozen men, give or take five. When the last shots have long echoed into the desert, Eggsy identifies the correct storage unit and blows the locking mechanism apart with a shotgun blast with his umbrella, then stoops down to roll up the shutters.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters under his breath, to the bricks of heroin and meth and fuck knows what else that greets him, packed to the ceiling and into every square inch of the room.

“Not getting any old ideas, I should hope,” Harry says, coming up to stand next to him.

Eggsy snorts, “Merlin’d nail my balls to the fuckin’ wall.”

“Hm. That, and you’ve put all of this behind you, of course.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes. “Sure. That too.”

“Good.” Harry pats himself down quickly and rummages in his pockets. A rivulet of sweat drips from the greying hairs at his temple, trickles down his cheek. He turns to Eggsy and smiles. “Could I borrow your lighter? I seem to have misplaced mine.”

Mouth suddenly much less dry, Eggsy hands it over and rubs a hand along his neck. “Left my crack pipe at home, though,” he jokes. “You’re gonna have to use your own if you’re plannin’ on sneaking a quick one.”

Harry lets out a sigh as he calibrates the lighter. “Very funny,” he says, tossing the beeping lighter onto a pile of meth and turning to leave. His mouth twitching to a grin, Eggsy follows suit.

The storeroom explodes behind them as they walk away.

***

By the end of the second week they’ve wrapped up most if not all of their major targets. Some smaller hideouts remain along the east coast, but they’ve made enough of a dent in the cartel’s operations for local authorities to deal with the rest, and Arthur recalls them to Kingsman HQ the Tuesday after.

Back in London, there are reports, reports and more reports to write up — at least four for each eliminated target, two from Harry and two from Eggsy. It’s not difficult, just tedious, and paperwork has always been the worst part about missions, but they won’t be given a new one until all the proper documentation has been filed. Eggsy ploughs through the worst of it for Harry’s sake, if nothing else.

“Can’t I just copy off yours?” Eggsy asks. He cranes his neck to look at the form Harry’s filling in, at the elegant cursive writing taking up the page. “It ain’t like anyone’s gonna read through these anyway.”

“Merlin does.” Without any more than a glance, Harry checks a number of boxes in quick succession, the same ones Eggsy has been trying to figure out for the last five minutes. He doesn’t turn the page over until Eggsy has not-so-surreptitiously duplicated his entries. “And Arthur, of course. Hard to keep track of all of us if he doesn’t.”

“So what’s Merlin’s excuse? He just likes it?”

The nib of Harry’s fountain pen makes scratching noises on the paper. “Your words, not mine.”

Eggsy looks back to his own form. Like Harry, he’s got one more page but he only has the very slightest inkling of what to do with it. He sighs, “Just wish they made these easier to do, is all.”

“You’ll get the hang of it soon,” Harry says to him, signing his name at the bottom with a flourish.

***

Arthur doesn’t send them out again immediately. Eggsy spends his time off-duty chilling at home and awaiting further orders, which roll in a few days later as he’s having dinner with Mum and Daisy.

He meets Harry at the shop shortly after, and it’s nearly nine in the evening when they report back to the mansion to be debriefed on the new mission. By a quarter to ten, they’re geared up and ready to go. Midnight, and they’re flying out on the next plane to Kosovo.

***

“So basically,” Eggsy says, “these are the guys who want the Serbians to roll in and take over everything?”

Stirring his coffee, Harry keeps his eyes on the newspaper he’s pretending to read. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

Eggsy purses his lips and looks out the window. Across the street from the cafe, their mark they’re tailing has yet to emerge from the hardware shop he’d entered fifteen minutes ago. Any time now, and they’ll have to get moving again to keep the trail. He uses his fork to pick through his neglected salad, too much limp spinach and not enough dressing.

“How’s blowing up half the country gonna make that happen?” he asks.

“Sometimes a show of strength can be the most powerful political statement,” Harry replies. He sips his coffee, throat bobbing as he swallows.

Around them, the other patrons are conversing rapidly in Albanian and the menu Eggsy’s using as a placemat for his bowl is printed in Cyrillic script. A garbage truck rumbles by on the road outside, wobbly on the unevenly paved road. Eggsy can just about hear the rattling of coffee beans in a hopper behind the counter.

“I suppose it ain’t a matter that can be solved by sitting down and trying to talk something out,” he says, after a minute.

Harry makes a humming noise, all polite patience and considerate thoughtfulness. He still has a tan from Mexico and there’s coffee lining his upper lip. Eggsy’s hardly ever been one for drinking coffee, never liked the taste of it. Maybe he should learn.

“It’s slightly more complicated than that,” Harry allows, lifting his cup to his mouth and taking another sip.

“Yeah.” Having given up on the salad, Eggsy puts his fork down and pushes the bowl away. He puts his hands on top of each other in its place and runs his index finger along the ridges of his last three knuckles. “Seems to be the case for a lot of things.”

***

Eggsy gets knifed four hours later.

“I thought these things were stab-proof,” he complains, discarding his suit jacket and plonking himself down at the edge of the running bathtub. Blood dribbles from the cut in his side when he hikes up his ruined shirt and pulls it over his head.

“Stab- _resistant,_ ” Harry corrects him. He already has a medi-pack open on the toilet seat and is dunking several surgical swabs in a plastic basin filled with dark brown liquid. “You could very well be dead now if it wasn’t.”

“Yeah, well.” Eggsy watches Harry snap on latex gloves and clamp the needle end of a suture piece in a pair of forceps. “Doesn’t mean I can’t be pissed that they’re not actually — _fuck!”_ Stinging pain, sharply-drawn breath through gritted teeth, and he tries to hold still as Harry swipes more disinfectant over the cut.

“Quite.” Harry picks up the forceps and uses gauze pads to press the raw edges of the wound together. “I’d personally be more upset about the fact that they no longer stock morphine for field use.”

“And _I’m_ the junkie,” Eggsy mutters and winces at the first stitch Harry threads into his skin. He splays his arms wider, gripping the edge of the tub. Pink water swirls down the drain. Bright pinpricks of pain in his side not quite dulling the insistent, throbbing one underneath. Harry’s hands are gentle, his breathing calm, unhurried. Eggsy focuses on it to guide his own and lets his gaze linger over the lines of concentration that have appeared in Harry’s face, the bow of his mouth, his soft brown eyes.

It really wouldn’t take much: a touch, a look, lifting his hand to Harry’s cheek and leaning in close enough to —

“There we are,” Harry says, snipping the loose end of the suture free, and Eggsy releases the breath he didn’t realise he was holding. There’s a ripping noise, followed by the pressure of an adhesive dressing being applied, then Harry’s sweeping stray wrappers into the trash and packing up the kit. Eggsy doesn’t move away or get dressed, just sits blinking in the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom, feeling battered, feeling denied.

***

The mission goes a lot more smoothly once they find the old World War Two outpost where the insurgent unionists are stationed. They clear out the underground bunker and fly back to London the same afternoon, and on the whole they’re in Kosovo for a little under seventy-two hours.

It’s a short enough assignment such that they only have to submit a single after-action report between the two of them. Harry writes up most of it and explains the different sections to Eggsy stepwise as he goes along, the dos and don’ts and what goes where. Eggsy listens, or at least tries the best he can with them sitting so close that Harry’s thigh brushes his under the table every time one of them moves.

There’s a health assessment to certify that Eggsy’s still operationally ready despite his injury. After which, when the report’s done and filed, they hardly have longer than a day to rest before Arthur calls them up to his office once more.

***

“Are you sure you’re not tired of this yet?” Harry asks. Crouched behind the parapet of the building they’re on, his sniper rifle tripoded, the wind gusting over the Hong Kong skyline doesn’t so much as nudge him out of position, not even by an inch.

Eggsy turns the fine focus dial on the spotter scope he’s holding to his eyes. “Tired of what?”

The metropolis below is stoked with flashing billboards and night lights and the blare of traffic crawling across the city strip, making it hard to continuously keep every window of the office tower opposite in his sights. If the sharpshooter they’re meant to foil tonight is showing up it’s going to be soon — the gala taking place thirty floors down is almost over, and the Chinese premier won’t be hanging around for much longer.

“This,” Harry repeats. “Getting dragged all over the place with me, having to go wherever I go.”

Eggsy thinks about this. About the past month and the non-stop missions they’ve gone on together, the things they’ve done and the places they’ve seen. He thinks about Harry and the way he looks in the middle of a firefight, sure and honed and lethal, and that satisfied expression of his that always follows in the aftermath of a job well done.

Is there any other answer for it, really?

“No,” he says, then, “Why? Are you?”

He doesn’t have to look to know Harry’s smiling, which is just as well — on the edge of his scope he spies a window being pushed open, and the silhouetted muzzle of someone else’s sniper rifle poking out through the frame.

“Target at one o’ clock, eleven hundred metres, twenty-third floor. Fire when ready,” Eggsy says, and Harry does.

***

After Hong Kong they’re dispatched to Nairobi, then Caracas, then Istanbul.

From Istanbul to Melbourne, Melbourne to Bahrain, before rounding off another week with a hostage crisis in Vladivostok.

Warsaw, then Harare. Singapore, and then Rio de Janeiro.

Fifteen countries, six continents, and Eggsy doesn’t know where he’ll be going next but knows he doesn’t care, so long as he’s going by Harry’s side.

***

In Prague, they take a train to Munich.

The compartment they’re allocated is a six-seater, three seats facing the front and three facing the back. Eggsy selects the window seat facing forwards and Harry sits next to him in the centre seat after he’s slid the door shut. Neither of them make any mention of the other four empty seats inside the car.

The armrest between them is only wide enough for one of them to park an arm comfortably. Eggsy steers clear of using it even though it’s obvious that Harry has no interest in staking a claim either. Harry sits with his hands folded in his lap and his head leaning back against the headrest, eyes closed as Eggsy looks out the window at the lush Czech countryside.

Eventually they both end up falling asleep, their shoulders nudging above the neglected armrest every now and again when the tracks curve.

***

When they wrap up in Germany, there’s no time for the round trip to HQ before they receive a commencement notification for their next mission. The earliest flight from Munich transits in Atlanta for a forty-minute layover, and the sun is a deep late-afternoon orange as their connection begins its descent into Los Angeles.

There is a Ford Mustang convertible waiting for them in the parking lot when they land. On the driver’s seat is a manila envelope containing a small wireless interface that syncs with their glasses upon activation. It uploads the new mission dossier before shorting out in Harry’s hand with a loud electrical fizzle, and he drops it immediately. The device clatters next to the gearstick, where it emits thin wisps of smoke for a few more seconds and then stops.

Sitting on the passenger’s side, Eggsy pops the glove compartment open. Inside, he finds a car manual, stacks of money in US currency, and two more sets of counterfeit passports, one Canadian and the other American.

“So do you wanna be Philip Kerr or Andrew Peebles today?” he asks Harry, showing him the information pages as he reads them.

Harry grimaces and reaches for his seatbelt. “Thought I’d had a word with Merlin about getting that photograph changed,” he says, buckling up.

“Really?” Eggsy studies the photo in the Canadian passport, though they’re both the same — Harry without his glasses, expression flat-lipped, eyes stern, altogether the look of someone who doesn’t need to be told not to smile while their picture’s being taken. “I dunno, I think it’s a good look for you.”

Harry grumbles, “Cheeky berk,” and slots the key into the ignition.

The car engine revs up like an ancient creature coming back to life.

***

Harry drives. Eggsy takes every liberty making himself comfortable, lounging with his seat reclined all the way back and his hands behind his head. He keeps his seatbelt on and props his legs up on the dashboard until Harry nags at him to bring them down and sit like a proper gentleman, whatever that's supposed to mean.

It’s not half bad, like this. Wind rushing over them with the convertible top cranked down, the Ford Mustang thrumming out eighty miles per hour on the asphalt beneath their wheels. The odometer ticking up, up, up. Mile markers off the highway and the vastness of the Nevada desert, nowhere and everywhere all at once, ripping past and rushing towards them while the radio crackles _Viva Las Vegas_ for the fifth fucking time.

Harry with his tie loosened and collar unbuttoned in the dry heat, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands steady on the steering wheel. Eggsy fiddles with the radio to distract himself from looking at Harry’s bare forearms too much. The road unwinds ahead and they keep driving, on and on as dusk slowly creeps across and washes out the vermilion sky.

***

The travellers’ motel they pull into has flashing neon signs and a rusty wire fence that’s more rust than it is fence. Harry parks the car and goes into reception to get them a room while Eggsy waits outside, watching a dangling bug zapper spit sparks whenever one of the unfortunate insects hovering around it flits too close.

Their room is on the other side of the motel. The door creaks open to reveal dusty carpets and furniture, and olive green walls that somehow appear to grow darker when Eggsy turns the lights on. Bits of plaster peel from the ceiling and the window blinds are broken. It smells like feet and stale cigarette smoke.

“Guess being a Kingsman ain’t always about living the high life,” Eggsy says darkly.

Behind him, Harry locks the door and says, “It’s just for one night.”

“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing.” Eggsy stops, his eyes falling to the lone double bed in the middle of the dingy room.

There’s no sofa. The floor is absolutely filthy.

“Uh,” he says.

Harry smiles apologetically. “It was all they had left to rent out. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No,” Eggsy says quickly, shaking his head with a little more force than necessary to convey his meaning. “I — um. It’s not, I mean I’m not, like. No, I don’t mind.”

Eggsy wants to kick himself. He really wishes he’d just left it at _no_.

But Harry nods and steps past him, moving around the bed and sitting down to take his shoes off. Still standing where he is, Eggsy wets his lips and can’t help but think, _maybe, just maybe._

***

That night, they lie next to each other in bed without touching, at first. Eggsy on his back with his eyes closed, Harry on his side facing away from him, a small dip of space in the sheets between them. Eggsy blinks his eyes open and stares at the dark ceiling. He turns to look at the back of Harry’s head. No movement whatsoever. He can’t tell whether or not he’s asleep.

As if by accident, Eggsy sneaks his hand under the bedspread, bringing his fingers to Harry’s lower back, brushing at the flannel of his nightshirt. No response. Eggsy waits, then shifts his hand higher up to negotiate Harry’s shoulder blades, the lightest touch. Still, nothing. After an eternity passes, before the daring can, he pushes past every gut feeling telling him to think better of it and tucks a foot between Harry’s ankles.

Harry rolls over in one heavy motion, and before Eggsy can withdraw or eject himself from the bed, Harry’s hand is on his hip and his feet are being warmed by Harry’s larger, calloused ones. Harry lets out a sigh, hot air against Eggsy’s nose and mouth, and this has to be it, Eggsy’s pulse is racing so fast that Harry must hear, but —

Another moment, and Harry goes still once more. Eggsy hangs on to his breathing for as long as he can, clings to the expectation longer than he should, but eventually the tension wound through him fades and he closes his eyes, exhales.

Nothing else happens, after that.

***

The next morning Eggsy drives and they stop at a roadside diner just outside the city. Eggsy orders a full breakfast: hash browns, grilled sausages, baked beans and scrambled eggs, the works. Harry has a muffin and two slices of buttered toast, and a cup of steaming black coffee that he blows on as Eggsy squeezes ketchup onto the corner of his plate.

There aren’t that many people in the diner apart from the two of them. A bushy-bearded man with arm and neck tattoos sits at the table closest to the door, and a lanky youth sips his milkshake at the serving counter while the waitress refills the coffee pots. Eggsy considers hailing her over and ordering something else so Harry will have more to eat. For the most part, though, Harry seems more preoccupied with writing in what looks like a notepad than finishing his spartan meal.

“Eleven across, seven letters, first two P and I,” Harry reads off the page he’s on, and this is how Eggsy realises he’s doing a crossword. “Partner of Heisenberg, or eccentric Bay Area street performer.”

Swallowing a mouthful of beans, Eggsy looks at the pad. It’s unmistakably the same one he’d gotten Harry nearly three months ago.

“Pinkman,” he says.

“Thanks.” Harry drinks his coffee as he scribbles the answer down. His stubble has grown out from a couple days' worth of missed shaves, the salt-and-pepper bristles dusting his face from ear to chin to ear. Eggsy breaks apart a hash brown with his fork and uses the largest piece to mop up tomato sauce from his plate.

They don’t get more food, but Harry does accept half a sausage off Eggsy’s plate before they pay the bill and leave.

***

Their contact meets them in the lobby of a swanky hotel slash casino located in the middle of the Strip. While they’re waiting in the guest area, Eggsy flips through a copy of _Forbes_ as Harry reads the newspapers, until a young African-American woman approaches them roughly twenty minutes later.

“I’m April,” she introduces herself, shaking hands with Harry first, then Eggsy. “Sorry about the wait. My Uber took a wrong turn.”

“That’s alright,” Harry says, pocketing the hotel keycard Eggsy hadn’t even noticed April giving him. “Floor forty-seven, yes?”

April nods, locs bobbing with the motion of her head. “You should find everything you need up there.”

The keycard gives them access to the lift, and a bellboy standing by offers to take their suitcases for them. Eggsy lets him, because why the hell not, and Harry does it too so he reckons it’s fine. They alight at their floor, Harry tipping the bellboy a tenner before leading the way to their room and flashing the keycard against the electronic lock to open the door.

The room — _suite_ — is, well. Eggsy hasn’t watched _Casino Royale_ in the longest time, except it doesn’t matter since he may as well be living the real deal. High walls, stately furniture and crystal chandeliers — it’s hard not to gape as Eggsy explores the poshest fucking pad he’s ever been in, but what stops him is Harry standing next to a wardrobe, frowning at the tuxedo he’s freed from a garment bag.

Eggsy whistles as he leans into the door jamb. “James Bond, eat your fuckin’ heart out.”

Harry shakes his head and tuts disapprovingly. “I would have thought that our current ensemble was more than adequate.”

“There are dinner jackets, and _dinner jackets,_ ” Eggsy purrs, attempting to mimic the delivery and intonation. It probably comes out much less sultry than it sounds in the movie, but whatever.

“Thank you, Miss Lynd.” Harry sighs and tosses the tuxedo onto the bedspread.

***

Things don’t go quite as planned in the next twelve hours.

Eggsy knows it’s no excuse for being late to the rendezvous point, but the Semtex in the hotel basement takes him longer to defuse than expected. By the time he’s cut the correct wires and snapped the blasting cap so nobody can rearm it, there’s gunfire ringing out over the intercom link in his glasses.

Returning to the ground floor, he walks as quickly as possible without running and dodges into the first empty lift he comes across. Above the penthouse level is the rooftop garden and swimming pool, and as the floor numbers bleed into the next Eggsy tightens the suppressor on his gun barrel and stamps down on the rising fear. Harry’s been fine without backup long before Eggsy became a Kingsman and he’ll be fine now. This is what Eggsy thinks about instead of what happened the last time Harry went in on his own.

The doors glide open with a ding, and a body slumps into the lift. Eggsy doesn’t recognise him but he thinks he’s seen the other dead man further ahead in black-and-white photos on the mission dossier. He steps out cautiously and spots two more men crouched behind an overturned table, loading new magazines into their guns. He shoots them both and moves forward, keeping himself close to the ground and his pistol raised.

Harry’s near the pool, fighting three, no, four men at once. He doesn’t have a gun but is keeping them all back with punches and kicks and throws, and defeats one more of his enemies with an elbow blow to the face. Eggsy aims and fires, taking down another; the momentary diversion this creates allows Harry to roundhouse kick the nearest man in the chest and send him flying to the deck. The last foe standing is an easy enough target to hit, only Eggsy sees it before Harry does — the man Harry just kicked seizing a dropped gun from one of his fallen comrades and pointing it right at Harry.

All of the hot blood surging through Eggsy’s veins runs cold.

The gunshot is like a bomb going off. Harry jerks like he’s bumped his head on something, and the way he falls backwards into the pool is the same way he does in a Kentucky churchyard on nights where Eggsy can’t sleep.

Everything goes a bit tinny after that, like being hit with a stun grenade on low, and Eggsy feels his body moving on its own accord over the white noise of his thoughts, only recalls what happens next in brief flashes he can’t piece together in the right order:

The second shot discharging from Eggsy’s own silenced gun, softer than the splash of a body hitting water.

The thud of a heavy weight against the ground, and he’s bolting up the steps to the pool, gun clattering across the tiles as he dives in, torpedoing through the water towards the dark shape, and —

He has an arm around Harry and is making broad, powerful strokes with the other, straining to keep their heads above the surface until they reach the pool edge, where he hauls Harry up, leaps out and then his hands are on Harry’s shoulders and sides and chest, frantic and searching.

“Eggsy —”

There are things Eggsy should be doing, he’s aware, like making sure that the man who shot Harry is really dead, or checking Harry’s pulse and breathing, or even mouth-to-mouth resuscitation if it came to that, but there’s just too much to do and he can’t think, doesn’t know _which one_ —

“Eggsy, I’m —”

Pool water in his vision. Eggsy’s eyes sting and his cheeks are already wet. He doesn’t stop pawing through Harry’s sodden clothing, still looking for a patch of red or anything that could lead him to the bullet hole; he has to find it and put pressure on it, stop the bleeding before —

_“Eggsy!”_

Hands are on his wrists now, stopping Eggsy from searching any further. Harry coughs wetly and blinks up at him. “Eggsy, it’s alright. I’m fine.”

Eggsy stares. He doesn’t understand. “But I thought you were, I was. I saw —”

Harry sighs and guides Eggsy’s right hand to his breast pocket, and, oh. There’s a small lump of deformed metal, embedded in the sleek material of Harry’s tuxedo jacket and dislodging when Eggsy’s fingers brush against it.

“Bulletproof,” Harry says, with something very soft and very kind at the back of his eyes.

Oh, Eggsy thinks.

_Oh._

Muscles burning, the terror in his chest breaking, Eggsy pitches himself back and lies with his ribs heaving as he waits for his heart to get back under control again. To his right, the ghoulish blue glow of the pool and to his left, Harry breathing into the dry night air. The sky above them is huge and starless and Eggsy closes his eyes against it, against an entire dimension that couldn’t contain all of the things he would do for the man lying next to him.

***

When they get back to their hotel suite, Eggsy is about to take a shower when he feels it coming on. He has enough time to lock the door and stumble to the sink before his whole body is shaking, his breath a pathetic stuttering thing in his throat. He hasn’t had a panic attack for nearly half a year, not since Harry was discharged from the Kingsman infirmary, but he remembers this feeling well. The room spins. His knuckles are white where he’s gripping the gleaming chromium to keep himself from collapsing. He feels like he’s staring down the path of a tidal wave and can’t move out of the way.

He barely registers the knock at the door, along with Harry’s voice calling for him on the other side. Eggsy means to try and pull himself together, reply that he’s fine, but his trembling hand knocks over a bottle of aftershave as he turns to answer.

The bottle shatters on the linoleum floor, and as the lock clicks open it’s all Eggsy can do to gasp a breath in, lean against the bathroom counter and pray that he only looks a fraction as shaken as he feels.

“Eggsy?” Harry says, standing in the doorway. He’s still drenched from head to toe, bow tie undone with the ends left dangling. His eyes tick from Eggsy to the shards of glass at his feet and back to him. “Is something the matter?”

Again, Eggsy knows what he’s supposed to say — no, nothing’s wrong, it was just an accident — but Harry’s expression is brimming with concern and suddenly it’s all so much for him, too much. His knees buckle and Eggsy slides down to the floor before he can fall over, another swell of panic about to burst like a bubble inside him, but then Harry’s kneeling in front of him with Eggsy’s face in his hands, close enough to smell the chlorine on his shirt.

“Eggsy. Look at me,” Harry says, and Eggsy does. They look at each other for a moment, eyes locked in their binding proximity, neither of them moving any closer or any further, with nought but a held breath and the stillness of a lifetime between them.

Then, Harry kisses him. It’s easy and gentle and Eggsy opens his mouth against Harry’s, letting himself be kissed for a while before kissing Harry back. He reaches for Harry’s shirt, gaining purchase on the damp cotton and using it to tow Harry in, needing _closer harder deeper_ and _more of him._ He only breaks the kiss for air, and then Eggsy kisses Harry again. His nose slopes against Harry’s as Harry strokes the curve of his mouth with his thumb, and at some point Eggsy will not be able to believe that this is happening but for now, Harry’s lips are warm and his hands are warmer and Eggsy leans into him, until he thinks he can feel Harry’s heartbeat through layers of skin and bone and their ruined clothing.

There will be time for disbelief later. For now he holds on to Harry, and everything is real.

***

All of the beds in their suite are doubles, but they end up having to use just the one in Harry’s room.

Lying on his side, Eggsy moves his legs further apart and rocks himself back onto Harry, trying to relax. Harry has an arm around Eggsy’s middle, cock thick and tight inside Eggsy’s body, catching and pulling at him with every movement either one of them makes. He’s still not all the way in, and Eggsy buries his fingers in the bedsheets, willing himself to take more even though he’s already so _full;_ he wants this, wants as much as he can get of Harry and all that Harry is ready to give.

“Easy,” Harry murmurs, breath flocking the back of Eggsy’s neck. He grazes Eggsy's collarbone with his teeth and his hand frisks down Eggsy’s stomach, nestling into the scratchy hair of his groin and palming Eggsy’s erection, stroking him gently. “Easy, Eggsy. Relax.”

Eggsy does his best, pulling a deep breath into his lungs as Harry puts a thigh over his bare hip and eases in further, slow and patient. Each small push is a low burn of pressure, Harry’s bulbous cock working him open in minute increments, altogether so good that Eggsy thinks he might lose his mind, and Harry hasn’t even gotten round to fucking him properly yet.

“Are you,” Harry says, and Eggsy doesn’t let him finish that, tangling their fingers together and clasping them tight before it can reach the lilt of a question.

He doesn’t know what Harry’s going to ask, but then again it probably doesn’t really matter one way or another.

“Keep going,” Eggsy urges.

***

They order up room service in the morning. Eggsy answers the door without putting any clothes on, just because it’s not everyday that a guy has the opportunity to enjoy Las Vegas and he intends to make the most of the experience. It’s Harry’s idea for them to have breakfast naked in bed, so it’s at least partly his fault even if Eggsy was planning to flash the room service attendant anyway.

“Fourteen down, nine letters, last letter E,” Harry says over a tray of coffee and pancakes with maple syrup. He taps the crossword page he’s on with his pen. “English boy from Mayberry eating low-fat ice cream treat.”

“You still doing that?” Eggsy asks over his shoulder, tipping more milk into his latte. He’s lying against Harry, his lower body bracketed by Harry’s long legs, head pillowed on Harry’s chest. Harry smells of sex and morning breath and Eggsy can’t resist leaning back to gnaw at his unshaved jaw.

Harry nods, canting his head to allow Eggsy better access to his coarse neck. “You should already know I dislike leaving things undone once I’ve started them.”

“So finish your breakfast.” Eggsy cuts out a slice of pancake and feeds it to Harry. He adjusts his position to keep Harry’s cock slotted between his arse cheeks, so he’ll know when they can start thinking about another round. “There’re things _I_ want to do with you today, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Of course, dear boy,” Harry sighs. “How could I possibly forget?”

Eggsy grins and kisses him.

***

There’s a place that serves seafood just round the corner. It’s crap seafood, most of it battered and deep-fried, but the restaurant is open-air and they’ve pretty good views up and down the Strip from where they’re seated on the terrace.

A hop-on hop-off tour bus stops just outside, and Eggsy drags Harry on board with only the bare minimum fuss made about it. The top deck is littered with empty crisp packets and ticket stubs, and they sit at the back while the bus navigates the oddly muted streets.

“We should have done something like this sooner,” Harry says as they putter past Caesar’s Palace.

Arms folded, Eggsy shrugs and glances up the hotel facade. He doesn’t bother to clarify if Harry’s referring to on-the-job vacations, or something else entirely different.

“Well,” he says, “Better late than never.”

***

They’ve until midnight to get to the airport, leaving more than sufficient time for dinner and a visit to the casino floor of the hotel after they’ve booked out of their suite.

“Not exactly _Casino Royale,_ is it,” Eggsy comments, looking down a long line of blinking fruit machines and the people sitting in front of them.

“Nowhere near as inaccurate, I’m afraid,” Harry says. He nods towards the poker tables and clears his throat. “I believe those are what you’re looking for, if you fancy a go.”

Eggsy pulls a face. “Pass. Not like I’ve got any money to be suckered off me anyway.”

“We’ve still got about three thousand dollars left,” Harry reminds him, indicating the briefcase he’s holding.

Eggsy cuts him an incredulous look, unsure if Harry’s being serious or not. “Hars, Arthur’s gonna kill us.”

Harry cocks an eyebrow at him. “You know what they say. What happens in Vegas…”

“… is gonna get us fucked in London,” Eggsy finishes, and Harry laughs.

“Well,” Harry curls his free hand around Eggsy’s neck and smiles, “I suppose that would be one way to go about it.”

***

Thankfully, their scheduled flight to Heathrow is out of McCarran International. Not that the thought of another five-hour desert drive back to Los Angeles with Harry doesn’t thrill Eggsy, but it isn’t exactly something he wouldn’t be able to do without.

At the check-in desk, Harry settles their tickets with the airline clerk while Eggsy scans the departure board and tries to guess which gate they’re at. It's not too difficult — there's only one plane bound for London for the rest of the afternoon. The clerk prints two tickets off and tucks them in their fake passports, handing them both to Harry.

“You and your son have a nice flight,” she says, smiling dazzlingly at them.

Up until now that has been their non-official cover for all of their missions, but this time Eggsy swoops in before Harry can reply, slings an arm around him and drawls, “Thanks, we will.”

And he kisses Harry right on the mouth, making obvious use of his tongue for good measure.

“Yes, erm, well,” Harry says to the thunderstruck clerk, looking apologetic and bashful and pleased all at the same time, and god, Eggsy would french him again without a thought if repeating the act didn’t constitute borderline public indecency. “Thank you very much indeed.”

Behind them, everyone in the queue stares as Eggsy leads Harry away by the hand.

***

In business class, the seats are cosy and spacious and there’s ample room on the adjoining armrests to accommodate two people without difficulty, maybe even three.

Harry does his crossword and Eggsy listens to music on his iPod through taxiing and takeoff. When the plane reaches cruising altitude, Eggsy’s hand drifts over the midline of their armrests and Harry takes it without prompting, squeezing lightly and running a thumb over his knuckles.

They hold hands the whole flight home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not online as often these days, but it would make each and every one of them if you told me what you thought of this here or on [Tumblr](http://fideliant.tumblr.com/)!


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